Breaking Down
by HRFan
Summary: Set immediately after 8.8. Rating will increase to M from ch 6... I do not own the characters, KUDOS/BBC does.
1. Chapter 1

10

**Breaking down**

**Set immediately after 8.8. Probably three chapters. Rating will increase...**

**The idea is to set out how HR move from their 'chaste' relationship to intimacy, given all that we know about their temperaments, fears, etc...many thanks for reading! Your reviews make it all worthwhile. HRFan.**

**CH1. **

**1.**

No news since Harry called her mid afternoon, from the bomb site, to tell her that the search for Ros and the Home Secretary was under way, that Lucas had a broken leg and severe concussion, that he himself was unscathed. Since then, nothing. She checks her mobile phone for messages, obsessively, and can't bear to be away from her desk. Had she not had to use the bathroom, desperately, she would not be walking back to the Grid, she would be _on_ the Grid, ensconced in phone lines and computer feeds, trying to get a handle on possible culprits, fighting the urge to get a car to go to the site, knowing that as the most senior of their reduced team of two, she had to hold the fort and help Tariq through the first major crisis of his fledging career.

She swipes her card in, hands shaky, and is met by the distraught face of her younger colleague.

'Tariq. What? What's happened? _What's happened?! Harry?!_'

She knows she sounds hysterical but she feels out of control, the icy fingers of fear clutching at her heart.

'Harry called', he mutters, on the verge of tears. 'Five minutes ago. It's…'

'What?!'

'It's Ros', he stammers. 'They found her. She was…the paramedics tried but…they couldn't…she's….'

She steps away from him, blindly looking for a chair for support, sinking down, physically and emotionally broken by the news that once again, and for the second time in two months, a trusted, cherised colleague has been taken away from them. But whereas for Jo, the tears came almost right away, this time, they are locked somewhere, deep within her, unable to push their way through to the surface. She looks up at Tariq, whose own tears are flowing now, and who looks like a lost soul. She gets up heavily, wearily, and gives him a long, heart felt hug.

'Is it….is it always like this?', he asks hoarsely, in an almost childlike voice. 'Do you always lose people in this place? I mean…'. He shrugs helplessly through his tears. What can she tell him? Recount the long list of those who went in a long burst of flames? Explain the peculiar pain of losing someone you wouldn't regard as a friend but who would die for you and you for them….She can't. Not now. Perhaps not ever. She squeezes his arm one last time, and dial Harry's number.

He picks up at the twelfth tone, as she was about to hang up. He does not say anything.

'Harry', she whispers.

'I know', he says, his voice barely recognisable.

'What…where are you?'

'I'm on my way to Wormwood Scrubs. Someone has got to tell her father. I could have rung the Governor but….'

She closes her eyes. 'Do you want me to go and talk to her mother?', she asks, praying he will say no.

'No need. Her mother has had Alzheimer's for two years. Her deterioration has been…'

'I see.' There's so little I know about Ros, she tells herself. So little…' Are you…afterwards, are you…?'

'I'm going home after I've seen Myers. I need to…You should go home too. There isn't much more we can do at the Grid today…I'll see you at the Grid tomorrow morning', he says heavily. 'Tell Tariq I'll debrief him first thing.'

He hangs up unceremoniously. Almost abruptly – and she remembers the way he brushed her off earlier that morning, on the rooftop, unable, and unwilling, to lean on her and accept the support and friendship she was offering. Unseeingly, tears forming at last, oblivious to Tariq, she makes her way to Harry's office, draws the blinds down, and collapses on the sofa, rolled in a ball, arms clutched against her stomach, the waves of pain finally overcoming her. She does know how long she stays there. But when she emerges, Tariq is still there, at his desk, not doing anything, staring into space. She places her hand on his shoulder. 'Go home', she tells him softly. 'I'll organise a rota here throughout the evening and the night. Harry will see you tomorrow….but really you should go home. OK?'

He nods, relieved, pretending not to notice her redenned, puffy eyes. 'See you tomorrow', he says awkwardly, grabbing his helmet.

She welcome the silence and quiet of the Grid, the semi darkness a cloak for her distress. She places phone calls and requests for staff to the relevant departments, aware of the weight and authority her voice commands – as if they all know, in the Service, and beyond, that she now is Sir Harry Pearce's right-hand woman. That when she speaks on his behalf, it is as if he is addressing them himself. Normally, to know that she is so tightly linked to him in the eyes of their colleagues would please her. But not today, of all days.

When the agents sent by the other services arrive, she briefs them quickly, methodically, her training taking over. She accepts the offer, from the DG herself, of a car to drive her home – a car which will pick her up in the morning to bring her back. She receives everyone else's condoleances, addressed to her, to Harry too….'_Tell Harry that…It must be so hard for Harry…Please pass on…How do you think he is..._

And she wants to scream. _I am __**not**__ his permanent private secretary!_, she wants to say. _I have no special claim on him, he can't even bring himself to accepting my friendship!_ But she bites the words back, and lets herself be driven home, numbly.

She runs a bath. Changes into clean clothes. Eats half a piece of toast. Drinks half a mug of tea. Picks up some book on Greek poetry, only to discard it. Starts working out arrangements for Ros' funeral, only to push the awful thought aside. She looks at her watch. It's 8pm. Harry hasn't rung.

She stands up, angry, enraged in fact by his behaviour. She grabs her keys and opens the main door to the flat – the drab, anonymous safe house she hasn't brought herself to leaving since she came back from Cyprus.

Her jaw drops.

**2. **

'What…what are you…?'

'Can I come in?', he asks tentatively.

'I thought you were going home.' She knows she sounds accusatory, but can't help it.

'I was. But then I thought…' He looks away.

She stands aside to let him in, inwardly berating herself for the way she is so instantly aware of him, his body, the big solid mass of him moving past her, taking great care not to touch her. 'Do you want something to drink? Tea or…I'm afraid I don't have whisky.'

'Tea would be lovely. Thank you.', he says, excruciatingly, unbearably polite. She clenches her teeth as he follows her to the kitchenette and watches her make the tea. The silence is heavy, a lumpy ball of grey lead hanging over them. In the harsh, yellow light, he looks truly awful: ten years older than he is, every sinew and line of his body screaming exhaustion – and something else too, a tension, an effort, as if he is trying, with all his strength, to remain upright, erect, composed.

'Milk?', she asks neutrally.

'I'Il do it', he offers, grabbing the carton from the fridge. He hands her a steaming mug of tea, she smiles at him, for the first time since he turned up on her doorstep – a diffident smile, but a smile nonetheless.

He sets his mug down so sharply that some of the tea spills over. With a curse, he turns away from her, both hands gripping the worktop to stop them from shaking.

'Harry?', she calls out.

He doesn't respond, solely focused on controlling the torrent of grief about to engulf him. It's pointless. He feels her move besides him, and he fears that she will leave him there, unwilling to offer once more what he rejected twice today. But she stays. He senses her arm around his back, her other hand sneaking up to his face. She almost forces him to look at her. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and something else too which he recognises as love.

And at last he breaks down– for Ros, for Jo, for Danny, for Zaf, for Adam and Fiona, for those he lost over the years, ripped apart by senseless violence. Somehow she manages to manoeuver him out of the kitchen and into the living room, and to sit them both down on a sofa. She draws him into her arms, and he allows himself to be held, heaving with sobs, his head buried in her shoulder against the slender curve of her neck, his hands clutching her, aware that she too is crying, though more quietly than him.

Slowly, falteringly, he finds himself grow calmer. He rouses himself and leans against the backrest, one hand supporting his head, the other still around her waist. 'Thank you', he whispers shakily, exhausted. 'I didn't mean to do this. I…'

'Why did you come here tonight?', she cuts in softly.

He brushes a tendril of hair away from her face. 'I was worried about you.' He swallows. 'Also…I needed you.' His voice breaks again. 'I needed you very badly.'

She strokes his cheek. 'It's hard for you to say it, isn't it', she says.

He gives her a small, sad, pitiful smile. 'Very'. He doesn't trust himself to say more. They're silent for a few moments, just looking at each other, still touching. 'Ruth. You know how much I l…'

'Harry. Don't. Not today. I don't want it to be said when we've just lost Ros. Not in the middle of all this grief. Please.'

He nods. 'But one day, Ruth….one day, will you let me say it?', he asks gently.

Her eyes are luminous in the darkness. 'I will. I promise.'

**3. **

**A month later.**

'Harry?', she says as soon as she enters his office – without knocking, as usual.

He looks up with a smile. 'Yes?'

'Are we still going out for diner tonight?'

She sounds tense, nervous. 'Yes. At least as far as I am concerned. I was planning to pick you up from your flat after my meeting with the new Home Secretary. Why?' _Please don't cancel on me_, he pleads with her inwardly, _not when it's going so well, when we are becoming so close to each other, when…_

'Could you pick me up from the rooftop instead?',she asks.

He stares at her, dumbfounded. 'From the _rooftop_?'

'Yes.' Her jaw is set, her tone firm. But he knows her well enough by now to spot the flickers of insecurity in her eyes.

'Alright. Meet you up there at 8? Good.'

He tries, and fails, throughout the day, to quell the uneasiness which grips his guts as he goes over that odd, weird, eccentric conversation. By the time he is through with the HS, he is racked with anxiety, drained by the endless round of speculations which has been plaguing him since the morning. A break up? No, since she obviously still wants to go out to diner. An illness? Surely he would have seen the signs. They are not intimate yet, they are taking things very slowly – and God knows he has his own reasons for that - but still, he would have noticed it if something were wrong….

He's worked himself up to a fever of nerves as he climbs the stairs to the rooftop. She is already there, bundled in her coat, admiring the winter night above London. She hasn't heard him so he allows himself the pleasure to admire her profile, to imagine what it would be like, what it _will_ be like to have her fully, completely – if only he could bring himself to progressing from chaste kisses to…

'You're here', she interrupts his train of thought.

'Ruth, what's wrong? I know there's something going on, but if there's anything I can do to help, anything at all you know that…'

'Harry.'

'You know that I would do anything to….'

'Harry.'

'Anything to help and…what?'

She smiles at him, shyly, nervously. 'I believe there is something you wanted to tell me', she says, her voice shaking slightly.

He goes very still, understanding dawning in his eyes. This is the moment he has been waiting for, for years literally. 'Are you sure?', he whispers, taking two steps towards her.

She steps forward too, so that they are standing so close to each other they are almost touching. She nods. 'I didn't quite hear that', he insists softly.

'Yes. I'm sure.'

'I love you.' He gets hold of her face in both hands. 'I. Love. You.'

Her smile widens. 'I love you too, Harry.'

He captures her mouth with his, gently, tenderly, softly. 'Thank you', he says hoarsely.

'For what?', she replies, giddy with happiness.

'For being here. For giving me this. For loving me.' His voice breaks. 'I feared, at times, that it wouldn't happen. That you would decide I'm too old, too set in my way, too restrained…'

She silences him with her fingers on his mouth. 'I never stopped loving you. I just needed time to make my peace with the past. My own. And ours.' She reaches up and kisses him. 'Thank you for giving me that time, Harry.'

He enfolds her in his arms, tightly, not wanting to let her go, savouring that long awaited moment. Her stomach rumbles. 'Are you hungry?', he chuckles.

'Ravenous. Let's go and eat.'

They walk downstairs, out of the building, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, not caring in the least who might see them. They go to a lovely restaurant close to her flat which they discovered two weeks before, but can't for the life of them register what they are eating or drinking, focused as they are on each other. And yet, as the evening wears on, their conversation flows less easily, it becomes somewhat awkward, stilted, as if they do not quite know how to take the next step together.

'Shall I give you a lift home?', he offers in the end.

She looks at him thoughtfully. 'Yes. That'd be lovely.'

In the car, they are both very quiet. He pulls up in front of her house and switches off the engine, uncertain suddenly of himself, of her, of this new stage in their relationship. She clears her throat. 'Would you like to come in for coffee?', she asks hesitantly, mentally kicking herself. _For God's sake...you might as well invite him up to take a look at your collection of erotic prints...not that you have any._

He swallows. He knows what she has in mind. What she wants. And it's what he wants to, of course it is. Or is it? Is it really? He loses his nerve. 'I think...it's quite late, actually, and...I'd better get back. I'll just see you inside and ...'

He can't bear to see the look of disappointment in her eyes, the hurt too, the question. He's seen it before, on some of their outings, when he's pulled back from her and shied away from greater intimacy. So he follows her in, makes sure that she locks the door securely, and with one last kiss, and words of love, and the enticing prospect of seeing her at work the next day, he goes back to his car. _You idiot_, he berates himself. _You've been waiting for years and today, of all days, you couldn't do it...you're going to lose her. She won't wait forever. You've got to talk to her, you've got to explain...she'll understand. _With a weary sigh, he gets himself home, unable to believe that the an evening which started so well, on such a high note, can end like this, tinted with despair.

**4. **

She potters around in her kitchen, trying to keep the tears at bay, unable to settle down to sleep. In her bathroom, she looks at herself in the mirror. She could be thinner, slenderer...the lines of her face are deeper than they were, the shadows under her eyes darker since she has been back from Cyprus. She isn't beautiful like Ros, or attractive like Jo was. Or Zoey. There's something ordinary looking about her, and although it normally doesn't bother her, tonight, she feels depressed: she was hoping that by accepting his words of love at last, she would finally break through his reserve, but no such luck. She doesn't understand him. One step forward, two steps backward....He can't but have seen, and felt, that she wanted him to stay and take that final step with her. She runs her hands over her body in the dark solitude of her bed, imagining them to be Harry's large, strong hands instead, and she sighs. _Seven years Harry_. _Seven years to get to that point...are we going to have to wait another seven years before making love? Come on...._She knows he enjoys kissing her, though his touch is light, and soft, free of any demand and urgency. She knows too that he knows, because she has told him, that _she_ enjoys kissing _him_. And yet, there is this nagging voice at the back of her head, insistently telling her that maybe he doesn't find her that desirable after all, that he loves her (of that she has no doubt) for her brain and her qualities as a person, but does not really see her as a woman with needs and desires – a woman of flesh and blood. _I won't wait forever....I've got to talk to him, to ask him what's wrong...._

Easier said than done.


	2. Chapter 2

3

Breaking down 2

1.

For the next two weeks, they hardly see each other outside work, curtesy of yet another right-wing extremist group intent on blowing up bombs in the London tube during rush hours on Valentine's day. Thanks to a tipoff from an informant a week before the bombs were due to explode they had a head start on the terrorists – a hectic week, though, with all of them having to put in a brutal 15 hour-long shift each day, and with Ros' replacement, a charismatic officer from 6, having to slot in.

Ruth likes this guy. She checked him out thoroughly of course: Mark Allen, 42 years old, Cambridge-educated followed by Sandhurst, divorced, no children, a shock of chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a big smile. There is steel there – he wouldn't have risen as high with 6 otherwise, but there is also genuine kindness, and quiet leadership. He'll be a good section chief, she can tell, once he has learnt how to fit in – mostly, once he heas learnt his way around Harry. Which won't be easy, if Harry keeps up with his gruff, somber, uptight mood, she sighs to herself. He's clearly frustrated at their three cancelled dates in a row. They're in a rut, obviously, and can't seem to get out of it – _already in a rut_, she thinks. _Christ. And we haven't even had sex..._She is frustrated too. Increasingly so. Except that _she_ can't afford have a screaming row with the CIA desk officer in London over the interrogation of suspected terrorists to blow off steam. _She _has to make do, to get on the bloody bus every day, back in the morning, with endless phone calls to make and information to analyse, and..._if only there were another woman on the team....too much testorerone around_, she muses tiredly.

'Penny for your thoughts?'

She looks up. Mark is standing in front of her desk, with a nice, friendly smile, and a gentle twinkle in his eyes. 'Oh, my thoughts aren't worth a penny', she says lightly.

'I very much doubt that, actually.'

She looks up sharply, but there is no hint of flirtation here, just open, straightforward interest. _Like George was_, she realises with a pang of sadness. _He's so much like George. He has none of Tom Quinn's intensity or Adam Carter's confident cheekiness. Lucas without the inner torment. A straight, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy._

'Ruth? Is everything alright?' She comes back to earth, with difficulty. 'I'm fine. Sorry. It's been a long day and...'

He watches her, puzzled by her nervousness, by the pain in her eyes too. 'I was wondering', he says hesitantly, with a tentative smile, 'whether you would like to go for a drink later today.'

She nearly drops her pencil. He's asking her out. That much is clear. He can't know, of course, that she and Harry are together. Not so much because they have been discreet about it, but because he has just started on the Grid, and they have had no opportunity to make it obvious that they were together, by leaving together, for example. And with Lucas' innate discretion and Tariq's obliviousness, there's no way he would have heard any gossip.

She smiles back at him.

**2. **

She smiles at Mark, his new section chief. She is smiling at him a lot, come to think of it. _Bloody 6_, he thinks furiously. _Why did they have to send their most attractive agent over to head this section and...Because he is the best, and you grilled him for five hours yourself so you know he is the best and..._He grits his teeth. If only they had been able to see more of each other those last two weeks. To talk. To get themselves out of their rut. But one quick snatched sandwich lunch punctured by the insistent ring of his pager doesn't cut it as a relationship cement. And at this rate, they will still be kissing all softly and chastely on doomsday – unless she decides that she has had enough before he has had a chance to explain why he has been so restrained and tentative with her, and goes off with Mark...

_Oh come on. Don't be ridiculous, _he chastises himself. _She's loved you for years, she's told you that, so she isn't going to disappear just because you can't seem to be able to take that step and this new guy has appeared on the scene. You just need time with her, to talk properly, and open up, and it will all be fine._

_Will it_? A nagging voice teases him. _Will it really?_

The phone rings. 'Yes?', he barks. 'Jools. Well. Well. Well. Crawling from under the woodwork. After all those years. What? You must be joking. Christ. They're reduced to scrapping the bottom of the barrel, I see. No. . You are not stealing one of my...what? You must be joking. Out of the question. I will not ask Ruth myself, if you want to...Fuck you, Jools. Fuck. You.' He slamms the phone down, livid, breathing hard.

'Ask me what?'

He whirls around, and takes a deep breath. 'Hi', he manages to say, softening at the mere sight of her. She shuts the door behind her and walks up to him. The blinds are up, so she won't be openly affectionate, but she is hoping that her love shines in her eyes. She places her hand on his arm, lightly. 'Harry. What's up?'

'That was Jools Siviter. Remember him? He was...'

She lets her hand fall by her side. 'I know who he was. What are you supposed to ask me?'

'He's just been made the PM's national security adviser. Juliet's old job. He wants to poach you.'

She guffaws. 'Poach me? Forget it. No way I'm going off to work with him.'

That reassures him, and for the first time today, he smiles, a genuine, open smile. 'Good. I'm glad to hear that.'

She stares at him. 'Harry! Of course I want to stay here. I mean...it's been hard recently but things are improving and...' She can't help glancing towards Mark, back at his workstation, and misses Harry's darkening face. She turns back to him. 'Harry', she urges, 'we've had a punishing two weeks but now that we've caught those right wing lunatics it's getting better. Let's have diner tonight. Together. We have had so little time and...would you like to come over? I could cook and...' Her voice trails off. He is looking at her uncertainly, with none of the joy and enthusiasm she was hoping to see, as if he were struggling with something. But he squeezes her arm quickly, a new resolve in his eyes. 'That would be lovely', he says simply. '8 o' clock OK? Good.'

She should be looking forward to it. She should be thinking that perhaps tonight is the night, finally, when they can somehow unlock themselves and move forward. But there is something in the air, some hidden tension which makes her feel uncomfortable, uneasy.

Like a storm brewing.


	3. Chapter 3

4

Breaking down ch 3

1.

She is stirring the lovely, nicely scented sauce she will serve with the meat, soothed by the the slow and rythmic movement of her hands. She did not use to like cooking, but Cyprus – George in fact – has taught her to enjoy those simple, ritualistic moments, and to find in them an escape from daily worries. Having left work early, by her standards at least, she had the time to have a shower, put on a hint of make-up, shave her legs, change the sheets in her bedroom, and tidy up. Not that she is certain that it will finally happen tonight, but at least, she wants to be prepared. For if there is one thing she does not like, it's being unprepared.

Her hand tightens on the spoon handle. _Relax_, she admonishes herself. _It's just Harry. Your Harry. And so what, if nothing much happens tonight...there's still the love, and the snatched moments of companionship which you can still give each other_...

And yet she knows deep down that it's not enough. She can still feel Mark's eyes on her earlier today, interested, aware of her as a woman, curious, caressing almost. She realises now that had she accepted his invitation, another one would have been issued, and she could very easily have started something with him. Something simple, something straightforward, something elegant. The kind of something she had with George. _Except that I can't kid myself anymore that I want a straightforward and simple man_, she tells herself forlornly, still stirring, automatically adding herbs, checking the softly sizzling meat, seeing to the rice_. I want a complicated, rather messed up _ _man whom I've loved for years, who loves me, but who somehow can't even show me whether he wants me or not, and I love him and want him so much that I wasn't even tempted to go out with this other gorgeous man. Goes to show._

The sound of the doorbell interrupts her reverie. Heart hammering in her chest suddenly, she goes and opens the main door. He's standing there, clutching a bottle of wine, with a smile. 'Come in', she says brightly - too brightly.

As he makes his way past her, she notices that he has swapped his jacket for a soft, lovely jumper which sets off his eyes and makes him look younger, more relax. 'HI', he says softly. She lifts her head to receive his kiss – a lovely, tender kiss, which makes her want more, so much more in fact, that she runs her hands on his back, enjoying the feel of it, broad, solid, under her fingers. Her holds her lightly, without applying any pressure, and kisses the top of her nose. 'Good to see you' he murmurs. 'Smells good.'

'We're having lamb stew'.

'Good', he chuckles, 'but I meant you. I brought red wine, is that OK?'

'Sure. Come to the kitchen. I'm not quite done yet.'

He follows her through, admiring the way she moves, the shape of her hips underneath her long skirt, the curve of her neck underneath the neat, tight ponytail which makes her look absurdly young..._Stop it!_ he orders himself, aware of the tightening of his body. _Not now. First you have to talk. Got it Pearce?_

'Harry? Harry. Are you OK?'

She stares at him, puzzled. 'Sure. Why?'

'You looked very...fierce somehow.'

He smiles at her brightly, too brightly. 'I'm fine.' The kitchen is warm, and filled with delicious smells. 'Do you mind if I take my jumper off?' he asks politely.

She swallows. 'No. Of course not.' He gets rid of his cufflinks and pulls back his sleeves, undoes the top two buttons of his shirt. She turns away, afraid suddenly of betraying to him how much she wants him. He notices her moving away from him, and tries to repress a stab of disappointment . 'What can I do?' he asks levelly.

'Oh. Set the table? All the stuff is....' She points to cupboards and drawers with her chin, trying to concentrate on the cooking, hoping he will notice the candles and candlesticks, and the matchsticks, and make use of them.

He's seen them. He wants to put them on, he wants this diner, together alone in her house, to be romantic, inviting, but equally he cannot, and will not, make love with her until he's talked to her, and he's worried that if he creates too much of an atmosphere, he will not be able to resist, and hold on to his self-control. The way he sees it, he tells her tonight after diner what he has been wanting to tell her for weeks, she thinks it over for a few days, for as long as she needs to really, and makes up her mind. Then, and only then, will it happen. So no candles.

He finishes off, and goes and stands behind her, unable still to resit putting his hands on her shoulders as she serves the food onto their plates. She leans against him, body length to body length. He breathes in her hair and nuzzles her almost. 'I love you', he whispers gruffly. 'No matter what happens, I love you.'

She stiffens. 'Harry. What's wrong?What...?'

'Nothing. It's nothing. Come on. Let's eat. It smells delicious.'

She brings the plates onto the table, and notices with a pang that he has not brought the candles out after all. Maybe _she _could. It's her home after all, and she has invited him, so why not? But she needs something, a sign that he is ready to move forward, and he has not really given her any. She sits down, somewhat heavily, and tries not to let herself sink further below than she already has.

He is aware of her eyes on her, of the unspoken questions so close to hurt, of the shift in her mood, and he knows that he is responsible for it, and that it is up to him the clear the air. He pours them some wine, and takes a deep breath. 'Ruth. Could we...?'

'What do you make of Mark?', she asks at the same time.

He nearly drops his fork. 'What do I...Oh. Well. I think that...'

'It's just that we haven't really had a chance to talk lately and...'

She knows, and he knows, that they should not do this, and talk about one of their colleagues, given that Harry is boss to all of them. _What possessed me to do that?_, she asks herself. _Make small talk? Or..._

'He'll be fine', he says curtly. 'I wish he wouldn't take so long to settle, frankly.'

She's stung. 'That's unfair. He's only just started, and God knows it hasn't been easy around the Grid lately.' She gathers her thoughts. 'I like him. He's very different from Tom, or Adam. Even Lucas. There's something...normal about him.'

He stares at her. 'Something normal? What? So the others are, were..._ab_normal?'

'Oh come on. You know what I mean. Adam hid his fears and vulnerabilities by flirting, Tom was so intense the Grid almost literally burst into flame whenever he set foot on it and Lucas...well. Don't get me started on Lucas. Mark is different. He doesn't pretend, he doesn't put up a front. He acts like someone who could actually have a normal life as a civilian.' _Not like you_, she almost adds, startling herself, perceiving at last why she brought up that particular topic, as if she needed a conduit, a pretext, a way to lead to what she really want to talk about tonight.

His appetite has fully deserted him. He carefully, neatly, puts his knife and fork back on the table. 'I see', he says blandly, a spark of anger, jealousy and resentment burning up slowly within him. 'Any other wonderful qualities in him that you have spotted?'

She is puzzled by the tone of his voice. 'No. Well. He's just a kind, decent, straight-shooter kind of guy. And I'm glad he is around, that's all.'

'Well, I'm bloody well not', he mutters under his breath.

'Excuse me?'

He raises his hands placatingly. 'Nothing. Forget I've just said that. I'm just tired, that's all.'

And suddenly, she's had enough. She too is tired, and frustrated, and needs to vent. 'No, I won't forget it. What's wrong with you?! You're in a bad mood all the time these days, when I ask you what's going on you brush me off, I can barely get you to smile...I mean, what's the matter?' She grips her glass. 'You didn't have to come tonight, you know. We've barely seen each other, and God knows we need time together if we're going to get anywhere but if you would rather be elsewhere just go! It's not as if I had nothing else to do or no one else to be spending time with!'

'With him.' The penny drops. 'Earlier. At work. I saw you with him. He was asking you out you for a drink, wasn't he?'

'Yes. He was. So what? He's new around the place, Lucas has his own demons to fight, Tariq is too young, and you haven't exactly made him feel welcome. He needs a friend around the place. We all do, actually, despite what you think.'

'Oh. And you're going to be that friend for him', he seethes. 'Fine. I hope you realise that he doesn't want you as a friend.' _Don't go there_, he tells himself, _don't open that can of worms, it's not the way to do it, it's..._'Unless you actually like the fact that he wants you and...'

She springs on her feet, glaring at him. 'My God. You're jealous. And how dare you! How dare you suggest that I would....after all we've been through all those years. After I told you I loved you. So many times....' She's breathing heavily, hurt, angry, unable to see her way past this, their first real, awful row.

'You were with George for three years', he says flatly. 'It's not as if you...' The moment the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back, but it's too late. 'I'm sorry. I should never have said that. Please', he pleads.

She doesn't listen to him. 'That's monstruously unfair', she whispers. 'How can you hold that against me? I left everything behind, _everything _Harry, to save your career. You got a knighthood in the bargain and I managed to find some sort of happiness with someone else. Well, good for me, I say. Even though he died of it', she chokes.

'I didn't ask you to do this for me', he retorts furiously. 'You made a choice, Ruth. You decided that I needed you to make this huge, enormous sacrifice for me! But I didn't. Or at least you could have asked me what I thought! But no. The next thing I knew, I was asked to identify your body at the morgue, for Christ's sake…and then I found myself on that dock, watching you go, without having any kind of say in it! _You _made that choice. Not me. And don't tell me you did it only for me. You did it for you too! Because you were too bloody afraid of being with me!' He too is breathing hard, heavily, stunned by the strength of his grief and resentment.

'Yes. Well. Who is afraid now?', she asks bitterly, eyes shining with tears. 'I'll tell you what George gave me. What Mark would give me if I let him. They make, _made _me feel desirable. But you...' She doesn't look at him, and doesn't see how pale he has become. 'It's as if whenever you kiss me, or touch me, you calculate and measure beforehand how far you can go. Far enough but not too far. Enough to put me under the illusion that we are properly together, but not enough to...to...' She is so upset she can barely talk. 'I know you love me. But you know what...I don't think you want me. Really _want_ me. You put me on a pedestal years ago. For my brain. My education. My quirks. But that's not the sum total of who I am, Harry. Believe it or not, I have a body. I have needs. Desires. Not for Mark. Or for anyone else. But for yo_u_. So I don't want you at the foot of the pedestal. I want you...I _need_ you next to me. In my bed. Inside me.' He swallows and steps towards her, hand stretched out, a dark flush of desire spreads on his face, which she misreads as embarrassment. 'I think you'd better go', she says tonelessly.

'No. Not without explaining. Ruth. Please', he repeats.

She shakes her head, drained beyond description. 'No. Please go. Just...go.'

He picks up his jumper and coat and walks out, soundlessly.


	4. Chapter 4

4

**Breaking down ch 4**

**1.**

Ruth,

I am writing this letter, having just returned home, fearing that I have lost you forever through cowardice and ineptitude, hoping that you will nevertheless be willing to read it to the end. There are things which I have been wanting and meaning to tell you for weeks. I had resolved to do so this evening, but my feelings of jealousy towards Mark, above all my old fears and limitations got the better of me. Once again. But I do want to say those things, for whatever decision you make about our relationship, at least you'll make it knowing the kind of man I am.

I say 'whatever decision you make', because I know what I want. I want you. You told me that I didn't. I can see why you would think that: I may be inept but I am not stupid and I know full well that my restrained behaviour those last few weeks has caused you pain and anxiety – though I had not realised til tonight quite how much so. I am so sorry for that. I **do** want you – more than I have wanted anyone, ever. If only you knew...so I would like to try and explain why I have not felt able to make love with you, why I have always pulled back from taking that step with you.

I was very young when I got married. Jane was a childhood friend, our families knew each other, one thing led to another, and almost before we knew it we found ourselves thrown into a relationship. Our first, for both of us. I did love her, and I think that she loved me, but neither of us was equipped for the demands of marriage. She was already struggling with depression, and I was already absorbed in my career. It took me a while to realise that we were drifting apart, partly because however difficult things were outside the bedroom, we could always somehow connect physically, even after Katharine and Graham were born.

Or so I told myself. One day, though, we had a huge row. I can't remember what triggered it. What I do remember though is what Jane told me – that never once in our five year long marriage had she ever experience sexual satisfaction with me, that all along she had been pretending. Every single time. And the worst of it was, she actually meant it, it wasn't something she had said purely to hurt me. Can you imagine what that feels like, to be told by your wife, whom you thought you knew inside out, whom you love, that you are so inept a lover that she dreads going to bed with you? Our marriage lasted for another ten years after that, but it effectively died on that day. We should have sought help – of course we should, but neither of us, least of all me, was open to it. The idea of talking to a therapist or marriage counsellor seemed pointless, and went against all the values I had been taught by my parents and the army: restraint, denial, a stiff upper lip approach to life....

Neither of us wanted a divorce. The children were very young, and we wanted them to grow up with both their parents. So we decided to wait until Graham, the youngest, went to university. Yet, after what Jane had told me, there was no way I could go near her – it would have felt like raping her. I was thirty years old, and facing fifteen years of enforced celibacy. I thought at first I could do it. I tried, I really tried, but I failed. I started having affairs, which my peripatetic life in the service facilitated. You know about Juliet, of course. There many, many others, mostly from within the service. I was a young up and coming officer, destined for great things, or so the powers that be kept telling me, and there were always plenty of willing women around. I didn't love them – felt mild affection for some of them, but really, in those years, I took what was offered. I didn't lie to those women, I never promised I would leave my wife for them. But in effect, I used them, just as they used me. I had a vasectomy to ensure that I would not father a child – basically to be able to have sex as often and as much as l liked, without having to face up to the consequences.

It is obvious to me now, as it should have been at the time, that I was trying to reassure myself I was a 'proper man' after all, that I was on a blind, egocentric quest for self-validation. With every woman that I bedded I got an ego kick about my skills as a lover – and I felt emptier than ever before. When my marriage finally collapsed, Jane having found someone who could make her happy in every way (as she took pains to tell me), I faced up for the first time to what I had become: a man obsessed with his career, opportunistic in his relationships with women, emotionally stunted. I hated and despised what I saw, and I resolved, there and then, never to have sex again, but only to make love.

That was fifteen years ago. I kept to my resolve. Fifteen years, Ruth. At first I didn't think I could do it: I was in my early forties, with normal urges and needs, after all. But I never gave in. Not once. I loathed myself too much for that. So I buried myself in my work, and used the adrenaline of dealing with national emergencies as a substitute for sex. After a while I got used to taming the demands of my body. The long hours we work, the stress we are under every day in this job, and the simple process of ageing, also helped. In the scope of a few years, I became almost disembodied, asexual, and it got to the point where that way of life was utterly natural to me. I didn't think about it anymore.

And then, one day, you walked into our meeting room, arms full of files, bright eyed with enthusiasm, forthright, keen...you were such a breath of fresh air. I knew that my request of an analyst had given GCHQ a golden opportunity to spy on us. I should have sent you back really. But I was awed by your intelligence, amused by your quirks, and impressed by the difference you immediately made to our team. So I kept you, trusting that you would come to see where your loyalties really lay. Which you did.

I can't tell exactly when I started loving you. Probably when Clive died, actually. You offered me a shoulder and a sympathetic ear, I turned both down, and told myself that I did not need them, but really I was scared of the turn our professional relationship was taking. I was your boss, I had lost all trust and confidence in myself as a man, better leave it at that. Except that I couldn't. Slowly, gradually, you wormed your way under my skin and into my heart. I tried to push those feelings aside, and failed. But with every step I felt able to take, I couldn't help but retreat. Like when I tracked you down on the bus one night, late...do you remember? When we talked after Angela Wells broke, I realised I couldn't bear the thought that you might regard me as limited and repressed. I am all of that of course. But I am also so much more than that...And when we went to diner, I really hoped that it would be the start of something real, something meaningful. Except that it wasn't of course.

I must take back what I said last night about your leaving. Of course you chose to go. But equally I chose not to fight to get you to stay, for the usual reasons to do with fear and cowardice- though if truth be told I was worried about what Mace and his acolytes would do to you if you stayed. So I let you go, as you asked, my lips still feeling yours – the first time in twelve years that I had experienced that feeling. And I went back to my own stunted life, of work, politics, scheming, pastoral care for my officers, and more work...I locked you up somewhere deep inside me, a memory to be treasured and nurtured.

I never thought I would see you again. I also didn't think I could fall in love again, with someone else, and I resigned myself to a life of solitude. But then you came back, under such excruciatingly painful circumstances for you. As soon as Mani brought you in, the walls I had carefully erected around myself blew apart. In the weeks I followed, I felt so grateful for the fact that you had forgiven me for George's death and the loss of Nico. But I also felt my love and desire for you become deeper, and more irrevocable, than it had been before.

I can hear you ask 'but why Harry? Why your restraint?' It's simple really. You're one of the most honest persons I know, and it is one of the things I love about you. I wanted you to know who I really am to know my past, before we made love. But I put off talking to you because I was utterly terrified that I would disappoint you to such a degree that you would no longer love me. I still am, to be honest. What scares me is not simply the fact that my disastrous emotional history might sow the seeds of distrust in you. It's also the fact that I am 55 years old, overweight, balding. I look at myself in the mirror and can't understand or see why you might want me. But also...as you now realise, I haven't touched a woman in fifteen years. I have forgotten what it is like to know the feel of a woman's skin against my own, I no longer know, I think, how to move and touch and explore in fulfilling ways. I know for having thought and fantasized about you more or less constantly over the last few months that the problem doesn't lie with my body, let alone my heart. It lies with my mind, and I don't know how to solve it. Nor can I ask you to solve it for me. It is something that I alone can do, for which I need time.

That is what I was going to ask you for last night, assuming that, after hearing all that I had to say, you might still want me. Now, I don't know anymore where we are, where we stand, what will happen. All I know is that I love you and want you, in every way that matters – if you will still have me.

I'lll drive back to your flat now and slip this letter under your door. I'm not expecting you to answer it – at least not right away. I can only hope that however angry or pained it might make you feel, you will read it for the declaration of love that it is meant to be.

Harry.


	5. Chapter 5

4

**Breaking Down ch 5.**

**Ruth's response...rereading it, this chapter feels flat somehow, but I wasn't sure I could sustain the intensity of the previous chapter. ****Not sure what to make of this one to be honest...I'm not very happy with is but I don't know how else I could have written it. Thanks for reading! And your comments are **_**always**_** welcome...please note that there will be a rating increase from ch. 6 onwards.**

'He's taken his dog for a walk, dear.'

She turns round sharply, her eyes gritty with exhaustion. 'Sorry?'

'Mr Pearce. He went out about half an hour ago. With the dog. Are you alright, dear?'

She looks at the elderly lady consideringly. 'Yes. Yes. I'm fine. Half an hour ago, did you say?'

'Yes. A friend of yours, is he?'

_Best not to answer that one_, she thinks wryly. 'Right. I'll go and catch up with him on...'

'On the Heath, that's right.'

She somehow manages to drag chuckle out. 'Yes. He always was fond of the area around the racing track..'

'I think you mean the bathing ponds, dear...are you sure you're...?'

'Yes. Thanks. Have a lovely weekend', she says.

She makes her way to Hampstead Heath, slowly, the fatigue of a sleepness night, and the harrowing hour she spent reading and crying over Harry's letter finally catching up with her. She was too tired to drive, so she took a cab and got dropped off three tubes stops away from Hampstead – one of the rules: never get dropped off at your final destination, always put a few tube or bus stops away from you and the cab driver. The journey door to door from her poky flat south of the River to Harry's spacious house in Hampstead, on a Saturday morning, took an hour and a half. Enough time to wage a long, wearying internal battle with herself over her decision to go to him straight away. _Well, I'm here now so...anyway, his neighbour will probably tell him a tired looking woman was looking for him earlier..._

As usual when she walks into the Heath, she can feel herself unwind and relax. On this crisp March morning, the budding trees, the shining sun, and blue skyes, uplift her, nervous as she is over seeing him again. The park is full of dog walkers and joggers, undeterred by the lingering winter cold and the relatively hour. _The bathing ponds...well, that helps_. _I should_ _have gone to a café and come back later..._She scans the scenery in front of her as she approaches the Ladies' Pond.

She spots him. He is standing next to a tree, patiently waiting for Scarlet to do what she has to do, her leash hanging limply by his side, wrapped up in a heavy winter jacket. He seems oblivious to his surroundings, unaware as he is of her approaching steps. As she gets nearer, and brings him into closer focus, she sees that he exudes sadness. Her throat tightens.

Scarlet's barking alerts him. He looks up, and freezes, astonishment etched on his face, fear too, and longing.

'Hi', she says softly.

'Hi...but how did...?'

'You've got a rather nosy neighbour. Another five minutes with her and I'd have got your entire weekly schedule from her.'

'Yes. I know', he chuckles weakly, stalling for time. 'I'm seriously thinking of recruiting her as an asset'.

He falls silent, and so does she. The ball is in her court, but although she rehearsed again and again on the way to his house what she wanted to say, she is suddenly lost for preempts her. 'Ruth, I...'

'You're wrong, you know', she blurts out. He stares at her, uncomprehendingly, and how that she is standing so close to him that she could touch him if she simply extended her hand, she notices how exhausted, pale and drawn he too is. 'About having to solve this on your own', she clarifies.

He swallows, visibly. 'Ruth, I can't ask you to...'

She shakes her head. 'No. Listen. We're similar, you and I. I know what you meant. I know it _exactly_. Until not so long ago I felt paralyzed by that kind of fear too. I remember very well what's like.' She wills him to understand. She doesn't want to tell him – him least of all – about the long, slow, langorous reawakening of her body under George's hands and mouth in the Cyprus sun, his patience with her fears and hangs up, and his absolute, infectious trust in her ability to reconnect with her dormant womanhood.

Understanding dawns in his eyes, and his lips wobble slightly. 'I suppose', he says chokingly, 'I suppose it does help if...if you do this with someone you love.'

She looks at him, straight in the eyes. '_That_, I wouldn't know.' She lets the confession of her true feelings for George hang in the air. 'What I do know is that it certainly helps if you do this with someone who loves you.' She frames his head in her gloved hands. 'And I do love you, Harry. I love you so much'.

He lets go of Scarlet's leash and takes her in his arms, crushing her against him. 'Thank you', he whispers shakily, head buried in her shoulder. 'Thank you so much...'

After a while they pull apart. 'Have you got any plans for the weekend?', he asks hopefully.

She smiles at him, still holding on to him. 'Yes. Sleep. I need to sleep, Harry. I didn't get a wink last night and I'm exhausted.'

'Come back to my house. I need to sleep too. And we can....we can take it from there.'

She weaves her arm in his as they walk back, not needing to talk just yet, enjoying the peaceful silence between them. He fumbles with his keys a bit, hands numb with cold and with nerves, as he doesn't quite know how to approach the issue of their sleeping arrangements. He rids her of her coat, and clears his throat. 'I'll show you where the guest room is. I think that Katharine left some night clothes last time she was here. Help yourself to what you need.' He makes a point of not looking at her when he adds, in a low voice, 'If you would rather sleep there...I changed the sheets. But...it'd be nice if...I mean, you don't have to but...'

She grabs his hand gently, taking pity on him. 'I'll sleep in your bed, Harry.'

'Good. That's...that's good. Come. It's this way.'

It occurs to her that she's never seen his house past the front room. It's elegant, tastefully furnished, but somehow empty – the house of someone who is barely in and hasn't made his own. He takes her to the guest room and shows her where his is. 'I need to feed Scarlet. I'll join you as soon as I am done'.

She nods, loving him for his tactfulness, and finds a nice teeshirt in the guest closet. By the time he comes back upstairs, having taken an inordinately long time to feed Scarlet, she is lying on her side in his bed facing outwards towards the window, almost alseep. He pulls the blinds half way down, undresses quickly to his underpants and a teeshirt, and slides under his cover. He circles her waist with his arm and moulds himself against her, spoon like. 'I love you', he whispers, kissing her hair softly.

He can feel the gentle responsible pressure of her hand on his, and slowly allows himself at last to be overcome by sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

3

**Breaking down ch 6**

**PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS RATED M FOR ADULT SCENES. SO WILL THE FOLLOWING CHAPTERS. **

The first thing he notices, when he slowly emerges from one of the deepest, most restful sleeps he has had in a while, is that he is still nested against Ruth's back, warmed from the inside by her unquestioning presence in his bed. The second thing he notices is that her breathing is shallow and her body feels light against his: she's awake, it seems. The third thing he notices is the growing pressure of his arousal. He's still wearing his shorts but he has moulded himself so tightly againt her that she can't but feel him, now that she is awake. He catches his breath. _It's all right_, he tells himself. _She hasn't moved away, so she doesn't mind, you don't have to worry, you can just enjoy this for a few more moments. _But the fourth thing he notices is that his hand is resting not against her teeshirt, but againt the bare skin of her stomach.

Her skin is so soft, so inviting, that he can't help but move his hand, tentatively, splaying his fingers, caressing the lovely curve of her flanks. Slowly, cautiously, he slips his hand higher, underneath her teeshirt, up towards the underside of her breasts. Her breathing becomes more shallow and he feels himself harden in response. He brushes the tip of his fingers against her breasts, and he would continue, but suddenly this blind, silent exploration is not enough. He raises himself on his other arm, and moves his mouth on her upturned cheek, and alongside her earlobe, hoping to entice her to look at him.

She turns over on her back and looks at him, her eyes luminous in the semi darkness of the room. She senses instinctively that he needs to take the lead and to give her this, so however much she wants to undress him and fully feel him, she resists the impulse. Instead, she offers him her mouth. He explores it with his lips, his tongue meshing with hers, retreating only to come back more insistently, his hand still moving around her breasts gently, building up the pressure in her.

After a while he raises his head. ' I want to look at you', he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. She half sits up and takes of her teeshirt, her lower body still hidden by the sheets. She will remember til the day she dies the expression on his face at that moment: the longing, the desire, but also the wonder and astonishment. His eyes are almost black. 'You're beautiful', he whispers, 'you're so beautiful'. She lies back and watches his hands resume their dance on her breasts. They're shaking, those hands, unused as they are to explore another body, but they are expert hands too, the memories of past lovemaking flowing back through them, hovering but not quite touching where he must know, surely, she most wants to be touched. She can't help letting a soft moan escape from her. 'Not yet', he says softly, 'not just yet'. And now it's his mouth, his lips, his teeth, grazing the mounds of soft flesh, maddeningly ignoring their already distended peaks, while his hand moves lower and strokes her stomach. She feels her sex react, soft, distant movements which foreshadow the explosion to come. 'Harry', she almost whimpers. She grabs his hand and places it on one of her nipples, craving a firm touch there. Slowly, he rolls the bud between his fingers, his mouth sucking on its companion, keeping the same pressure on both, rythmic, relentless, eliciting the same unbearable pressure within her core. She contracts her intimate folds, unable to stop moaning, desperate for release.

He is so aroused that he is almost in pain. He'd like nothing more than free himself peel his shorts off, and hers for that matter, and feel her intimate moisture around him, except that he can't seem to stop stroking her, drunk on the feel of her skin and her sweat under his hands and mouth. He dimly realises that he has started moaning too, the pressure in his shaft building up inexorably, the first tingles of pleasure suffusing his groin. He knows he should stop, and slow down, and bring her back down to take her up again, with him, but he can't. All he can do is drink her skin and hear the crescendo of her climax, until she buckles underneath him and arches her back, in one long whimper of release, bringing his own climax out into a long, shuddering explosion which he can't control.

She sags against him, grabbing his hand in hers, burrowing against his chest. 'I'm sorry', he whispers, ashamed of his lack of self-control, moving the lower half of his body away from her. 'I'm so sorry, I couldn't hold back...it's been so long and I wanted you so much...I...'

She looks up at him, eyes wide with wonder, and places her fingers against his mouth. 'Don't apologise.' She struggles to catch her breath. 'Do you have any idea', she asks shakily, 'do you have any idea what it means to me, to have you with me, like this?'

'I wanted to give you more. For this first time...'

'We have plenty of time, Harry. Plenty of time.' She moves back next to him, relishing the feel of his wetness and hers. She slides her hands underneath his teeshirt. 'I want to feel you', she commands softly. So he takes off the garnment and gathers her close, chest to chest, still not quite ready to let her see him, even only half naked.

'Thank you', he says chokingly. 'I love you.'

She strokes his back, lovingly. 'I love you too, Harry Pearce. And next time...'

'Next time?', he asks, the light of desire dancing in his eyes.

'Next time, it's my turn', she promises.


	7. Chapter 7

5

Breaking down ch 7

**This chapter was very hard to write; particularly section 2. In fact, I very nearly did not post it. I am still blushing about it, to be honest! Please note the rating...**

'What do you want to do today?', he asks lazily, stroking her hair.

'Well. It's 2 in the afternoon and I'm starving. I'd say a late lunch and a walk on the Heath?'

'Sounds good....' He pauses, and she guesses, by the sound of his silence, that he wants to say something but dares not. As he has not dared yet fully undress her, or himself for that matter, or put the blinds up to let the sun in. _Let him do this at his own pace_, she tells herself. _Remember how long it took before you could have sex in broad daylight..._'I was thinking', he says tentatively, 'do you want to spend the rest of the weekend together? We don't need to go into the Grid today, it's so quiet. We could drive out to the country tomorrow or...' He clears his throat. 'Or we could stay in, or...'

She smiles against his chest. 'Sounds good. And if you're inviting me to stay here, I'll gladly accept. But I've got to get back to mine to get a few things. I don't mind wearing Katharine's teeshirt, but I draw the line at wearing her underwear.'

He chuckles. 'Fair enough. Let's go and have lunch, and then drive there. We can take Scarlet for a walk in the park near you and...'

'How do you know there's a park near me? You can't see it from my flat.'

He looks away, mildly embarrased. 'I checked out the area before you moved in.'

'Oh. For operational purposes, of course', she teases.

He blushes. 'Well. Yes. And also because I wanted you safe', he says soberly, 'and I wouldn't trust anyone but myself to make sure of that.'

She raises herself to reach his lips. 'I love you' she says, kissing him tenderly.

'Love you too. Now...if you want to use the bathroom, I'll get you a spare towel.' He swings his legs out, and grabs his dressing gown so quickly that she hasn't even get a glimpse of his body. _Oh Harry....how wounded must you be, how fragile, that you won't even let me see your naked back, after what we shared earlier_....

Over lunch, in a lovely pub near the Heath, and later at the park near her place, he isn't physically demonstrative. He doesn't put his arm around her shoulders; he does not hold her hand. But he walks close to her, allowing his body to brush against hers often, and lets his eyes roam on her face freely, hungrily. Their conversation – about work, his children, their students days in Oxford, fifteen years apart, is leisurely, relaxed, free-flowing, the way friends talk who know each other well, and who also know that silence can also be treasured.

'Let me take you out for diner', he suggests as they are driving back to Hampstead. 'Tonight. Our last diner together was....'

'Cut short', she says softly, unwittingly remembering their row, but deeply grateful for the fact that they at last found a way to each other. 'Thank you. That's a lovely idea.'

2.

When she emerges from the bathroom a while later, after a lovely, romantic diner at a nearby restaurant, he is already in bed, sheets firmly pulled up to his waist, arms locked behind his head. He's switched off all the lights except a dim, small night light which casts shadows over the bed. He smiles at her as she approaches the bed – a shy, tentative smile. She slides under the cover and snuggles up to him. 'I had a lovely day, today', she says. 'THank you.'

He kisses her. 'My pleasure. What do you want to do tomorrow?'

'Well....do we have to decide now? Can't we play it by ear?'

'We can. But I thought you liked being organised and planning ahead', he teases her, circling her shoulders with his arm.

She chuckles. 'Only at work, Harry. Outside work, I'm more a focus-on-the-present type of woman.'

'Oh. Well. I can see that there is a lot I still have to learn about you, isn't there', he murmurs distractedly, enjoying the feel of her weight against him.

She sneaks her hand under the cover and slowly strokes his naked chest. 'And I kind of like the present, right now.'

'So do I', he says in a rather strangled voice. 'So do I.'

She raises herself on an arm and kisses him, exploring his mouth while her other hand roams freely on his chest, brushing his nipples. He gasps, and she laughs softly, lowering the sheet to his waist. At the sight of the pluckered scar tissue on his shoulder, she stops. 'My God, Harry. I hadn't realised it'd been so bad.'

He starts pulling the sheet back up, but she holds him back. 'No. Let me. This is part of you.' Slowly, tenderly, she caresses him, with her hands, then her mouth, taking her time, loving the feel of his skin on her lips and under her fingers, relishing the sound of his quickened breathing. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you?', he rasps.

She looks up at him. 'Yes, of course.'

'No, I mean, _really _enjoying it.'

She strokes him back up to his cheek and cups his face with her hand. 'Yes. As you enjoyed loving me this morning.'

He swallows. 'But you're beautiful.'

'Oh, Harry...Look at me.' He does, and she sees the uncertainty, the fear, mixed with longing, in his eyes. _How can I make him understand_, she wonders. _How can I get through to him that it doesn't matter that he is not in his prime and_...

'I'm sorry, Ruth, I don't want to let my hang-ups...'

'Do you trust me?', she asks him suddenly. He nods, obviously wondering what she has in mind. 'Good', she says decisively. She sits up, takes off her camisole and briefs, and pulls the sheets down. He is still wearing his shorts, distended by his arousal. She rids him of them, gently, and exposes him to her gaze. They are both naked now, facing each other, and he can't tear his eyes away from her – from what he didn't allow himself to see in the morning. 'That's right, Harry', she tells him, 'look at me. You find me beautiful. Well, most men don't. I'm forty, not particularly fit, my waist is getting thicker, so are my hips. As for my thighs...actually, let's not even go there...The point is...'

'That's not true!', he says fiercely, getting hold of her, 'I don't even see those things, and...I don't care anyway...'

She reaches up to him. 'Exactly. And you _do_ see those things, of course you do. With your eyes. But with your heart, with....', she moves her hand downwards in one smooth movement, and takes him in lightly, delighting in his gasp of surprise, 'with _this_, Harry, you don't see it. You don't care. Well, it's the same for me. I see, with my eyes, that you could do with losing weight, and that you haven't seen the inside of a gym in a very long time. But with my heart' – she takes hold of his hand, gently, and places it at the core of her feminity – 'and with this, I don't see it. I don't care. Do you see?'

He lets his hand rest there, her heat warming his fingers. 'Yes. Oh God, Ruth....I...'

She silences him with a kiss, and resumes her searching exploration of his chest and stomach. She loves the contrast between his solid, stocky build and the soft suppleness of his skin. Her lips follow her hands, rovingly, but she is very careful not to touch his erection, instead stroking his feet, his calves, his thighs, relishing the movement of his muscles jumping underneath her fingers. He arches his back, and parts his legs without even realising it. 'Ruth...please. I need...' 'Soon', she murmurs, 'Very soon.'

He falls back on the mattress, eyes closed, abandonning himself to her, his fists clutching the sheets, beads of sweat dampening his brow when she starts stroking his hair-roughened skin. When she finally reaches her goal, letting her fingers shakily trace his length and circle him, breathing in the scent of his arousal, her lips following suit, he lets out a moan. He is swimming in a sea of sensation, aware of nothing and no one else other than her, more alive than he has been in fifteen years. He can sense the first waves of pleasure building in from deep within him and making their way to the surface – but this time, he finds enough self-control within him to pull back from the brink. He gets hold of her gently, and gets her to lie on her side, next to him. She looks at him, puzzled. 'Aren't you...don't you want...?'

For the first time, he sees uncertainty in her gaze, the seed of a worry. And so he lies down on top of her, deliberately brushing himself against her. 'I want to be inside you', he says through ragged breaths. 'I've wanted this, waited for this, being with you like this, for over five years. Ruth.... Will you have me?', he asks simply.

Tears spring to her eyes. 'Yes. But...I don't know if I can...I mean... I'm not that...and you're...' She blushes, unable to articulate her worry, and her sudden shyness moves him, and unlocks him. 'Trust me' he whispers. 'Just trust me.' Infinitely slowly, tenderly, he makes her his, one moment at a time, murmuring words of encouragement, stopping when she tenses, allowing her to welcome him slowly and fully. When he is ensconced so deeply within her that he can't really tell where her body ends and his starts, he raises himself on his forearms and looks down at her. In the dim light of his bedside lamp, he can see how flushed she is, how swollen her lips, how clear her eyes. 'Don't move', he tells her hoarsely. 'Whatever you do, please don't move.'

She rests her hands on his hips, letting her body get used to him, aware of the tension running through him and the immense amount of self-control he is exercising to slow himself down. With a long sigh, his mouth locked to hers, he starts moving, imperceptibly at first, in the most intimate, langorous stroking she has ever known. 'Ruth...look at me', he commands, for the first time taking the lead. He looks at her in the eyes, so deeply, so profoundly, that it is as if he can see her soul, and raises himself fully on his arms. 'Look at me.' And at last, at long last, he moves within her fully, angling his hips in a way which he knows, finally drawing on his long and considerable experience, will give her the most pleasure. She bites her lips. She doesn't want to cry out, not just yet, not when their dance has barely begun. But he won't let her hold back. 'Let it go', he gasps as he thrusts more deeply still, 'Yes. That's it...move with me, my love, come with me...' And he can't say anything anymore. As she begins to climax, her scream resounding in the room, he lies down on her fully, length to length, face buried in her neck, and lets the natural movement of his body take him over the edge and release him in a harsh cry, almost a sob, her name a soft whisper on his lips.

A long moment later, he rolls on his side, unwilling to let her go, the wild beating of his heart slowing down. She hasn't said anything yet, and her silence unnerves him. He raises her face up gently. She doesn't need to explain her tears. He understands them. His are not that far away either. He kisses her eyes, her mouth, softly, and draws the sheets on their bodies. They need not say anything.

They _know _each other.

THE END.


End file.
